


Badon Hill

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, i got sad and wrote the most self indulgent garbage i could think of, so. trans rights i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23347108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: It was after the battle of Badon Hill when they found each other outside the Kings tent, still bloody, filled with the heady combination of exhaustion and adrenaline and the still dawning realization that it was over. And they were alive, and neither had even seriously injured, though the blood of the enemy still mixed with their own, covered as they were, and still bleeding from a dozen minor injuries each.
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Badon Hill

**Author's Note:**

> s/o to jessie at intotheriverstyx for finishing hotel au and making me sad, thus necessitating i cheer myself up by writing some nonsense in like an hour late last night 
> 
> again, trans rights i guess

It was after the battle of Badon Hill when they found each other outside the Kings tent, still bloody, filled with the heady combination of exhaustion and adrenaline and the still dawning realization that it was over. And they were alive, and neither had even seriously injured, though the blood of the enemy still mixed with their own, covered as they were, and still bleeding from a dozen minor injuries each.

“Made it out alright?” Gawain asked, brushing a hand on his arm and surveying him for any gaping flesh wounds.

“Mhm. You?” Lancelot asked, doing the same.

“Still around to bother you, I'm afraid,” Gawain grinned, “fuck, there’s a chunk of bone in your hair.”

“Not mine I hope?”

Gawain stepped forward, one hand on Lancelot's shoulder and the other in his hair, coming away somehow bloodier than before.

“You must have lost your helmet early on, the state you’re in,” Gawain said, as if he was any better. He hadn’t stepped back or moved his hand.

“Can’t remember,” admitted Lancelot, whose only thoughts up until a minute ago had been to bathe and sleep for the next several days.

“Oh, don’t look now, Kays giving us both a look like if we’re not cleaned off, wounds seen to and equipment dealt with he’ll skin us both for a rug,” Gawain smirked and stepped back. 

“I'm glad you’re alright,” Lancelot said softly.

“Likewise,” Gawain answered, already making as if to walk away. 

“I feel guilty, asking a healer to see me when I'm not so badly injured, and they’re overwhelmed,” He said. Battle does funny things to a person.

But it had the desired effect. Gawain turned back, “Come with me to my tents then, we can patch each other up.”

Armour was shed, and at some point, other people must have been there to take it away, bring hot water and bandages and cloth, but Lancelot was only hazily aware of it, time passing in that way it does sometimes both very quickly and very slowly. Soon they were sitting across from each other, the worst of the gore gone with their clothes, replaced now with only clean braies. They were getting blood on the sheets still, but the worst of it was gone.

“Looks like we’ll both have a new bevy of scars,” Gawain said, voice hushed. The halting conversation barely rose above a whisper, and neither was sure why. Maybe it was the way the hands that had been so recently used to kill were so gentle with the other, or the din of battle still echoing in their ears in the muffled silence of the tent, lit by candles only now that the sun had set. 

Gawain ran a wet cloth, by now stained with blood and dirt and viscera of the battle still on their skin, over a cut on Lancelot’s chest. It was not unlike a spider crawling on the back of his neck, the way the softness of the touch sent barely suppressed shivers through him, but with a confusing sort of pleasantness, he wasn’t sure what to do about. 

Lancelot was fearless in a fight and useless most everywhere else, but they had beaten the Saxons today so maybe anything was possible. Their faces were close enough together, Gawain’s bent down, in focus on his task, Lancelot studying him, that only a slight movement would bring their lips together. Before something like rational thought could fight its way into the forefront of his mind, he made that movement.

If Gawain was surprised by this he didn’t act like it, merely deepening the kiss, cloth discarded, as if it were the most expected thing in the world for his friend to kiss him. They were already mostly naked in a bed, maybe it had been expected, Lancelot thought very briefly. Soon their bodies were pressed together on the rumpled, bloody sheets, and such ponderings were above his abilities. 

“Where is this from?” he asked, kissing a small curved scar on Gawain’s neck.

“Dagger, skirmish with a bandit,” he answered, one hand tangled in Lancelot’s hair, the other on his hip. 

“And this?” Lancelot asked, lips brushing a long, thin scar above his collarbone. Gawain bit back a gasp before answering, “spear, glanced off me barely deep enough to scar, Roman, I think.”

“These?” Regarding the twin scars across his chest, too clean and even to be anything but magical in origin. But Gawain paused a moment, pulled back just far enough to look Lancelot in the eyes, and then glanced away as if regretting that choice.

“Well, those- they’re strictly speaking from my Aunt Morgan but I agreed to it-” he stopped a moment to consider how to explain, or whether he wanted to, but ultimately stumbled on, “sort of- there were parts of me I wanted to change- they’re in other places, too- see, I was- when I was younger-”

“No, I understand,” Lancelot said quickly, and smiled sort of uncertainly, “Don’t ever tell her I said so but Morgan doesn’t know everything. Uh, the Lady did the same for me and left no mark.”

He didn’t have to wait for a reaction. 

“You French bastard!" Gawain hit him with a pillow, then just as quickly grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in for a rough kiss, to show there were no hard feelings. He responded with enthusiasm, hands going indecorous places, and Gawain broke away with a breathless laugh.

“Oh, good, I mean its so nice that we bonded and grew closer as friends but I am glad you still want to have sex. You do, right?”

“Very much,” he managed, pulled Gawain back into an embrace, the latter still complaining only somewhat coherently about  _ how long they had known each other without being aware-! _ and how he was a French bastard. The French bastard, laughing, kissed him till he finally stopped talking. 

(this is where a sex scene would be if I knew how to write them but I don’t so it’s over now. Go home.)


End file.
